


You Never Need to Doubt It

by mellyflori



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, minor PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8365261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: Porthos had given Aramis another couple of weeks to relearn his smiles before he’d sat down across the table, thumped a deck of cards down between them and said, “I need to practice pulling from my sleeve. Play with me.”  
Aramis had looked at Porthos over his wine cup and cocked one eyebrow. “You want me to help you perfect your cheating.” It wasn’t a question.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> A birthday gift for someone who makes me laugh, who is always ready with a sympathetic ear, and who makes the world a more beautiful place with every piece of art she puts into it. JL, you deserve every great thing, but since I can't do that, have some sentimental filth.

“I wouldn’t mind so much if it would just give up and piss buckets, but this thing where it’s just enough to be miserable?”  Porthos grunts, disgusted.

“I wasn’t aware that you were made from sugar, Porthos. Will you melt away to nothing in the rain? Can I have your dagger after you’re gone?" 

Porthos cuffs Aramis on the back of his head and laughs. “Ass. C’mon, let’s go find an inn, we can’t very well sleep out in this." 

It’s winter, but they’d still have been okay with a fire and their cloaks around them, if it had stayed dry. So they took a chance and left the tent at the garrison rather than burden the horses with it and now they’re stuck, twenty miles from Paris, after sunset, in the rain. Porthos thinks about his warm, dry rooms at the garrison, the bottle of wine he’d just opened last night and he tries not to grumble.  

At least he’s out here with Aramis. He’s been part of the unit for almost three years now, and for the last year, he and Aramis have been nearly inseparable. They’ve gone out on missions together, trained together, made a dent in that bottle of wine together, and every minute of his has been torture and joy for Porthos.   

He’d watched from across the training yard for a year after Savoy while Aramis healed, in body and soul. Porthos had seen Aramis drawn in on himself, locked in his own mind with the memories of all his dead comrades, and he’d wondered what this beautiful man would be like with light in his eyes. 

It had taken weeks for Aramis to speak again, months for him to be able to train like he used to, and the anniversary of the massacre had almost come before Aramis had smiled. When he finally did, after a terrible joke from Dubois, Porthos had nearly choked on his beer. It was like watching the sunrise in the forest, rays peeking through the trees and then a flood of warm light all around them. Porthos had given Aramis another couple of weeks to relearn his smiles before he’d sat down across the table, thumped a deck of cards down between them and said, “I need to practice pulling from my sleeve. Play with me.”  

Aramis had looked at Porthos over his wine cup and cocked one eyebrow. “You want me to help you perfect your cheating.” It wasn’t a question. 

“No, I want Beaufort to muck the stables for once instead of foisting it off on me as the new guy. People are still handling you like you’ll break, so if he sees me over here with you, he won’t want to drag me away and leave you alone." 

It was a risk, a hell of a risk, and for a long, long moment Aramis had only stared at him, eyes wide and mouth open. Porthos had been about to apologize and go volunteer to shovel horseshit just to get himself out of this, when Aramis started laughing. It was a huge bark at first and then a wheeze and in the end he’d been bent low over the table and Porthos had to thump him on the back to make sure he wasn’t choking on his wine.  

“I needed that,” Aramis had said, wiping the tears from his cheeks. After that, by some unspoken agreement, they’d done everything together. Porthos would like to pretend that it had taken a few weeks after that to fall in love with Aramis, but the truth is that he’d fallen even before they’d sat across from each other at that table, playing cards and bitching about Beaufort for hours. 

He knows that the ghosts of Savoy are still in Aramis’ head somewhere, but he does everything he can to keep them at bay, to remind Aramis that he’s alive. 

 

They ride for another half an hour before there’s a dim light in the distance that turns out to be a small but tidy inn. There are a few tables and a bar, and three rooms upstairs. “We’ll take two of them,” Porthos says. “Or one, if either of them has two beds.”  They’re adults and soldiers and sharing a bed is common, but Porthos doesn’t think he can spend the night with Aramis in bed next to him and not touch. It’s hard enough to stand next to him in the practice yard, this would be too much. 

“I’m awfully sorry,” the girl at the bar says. “We’ve just the one left. Normally we can’t give them away, but it’s the weather, yeah?" 

“Not to worry, my dear,” Aramis grins at her, clutching his hat to his chest and bowing his head over it. “One will be fine. My friend and I will think it a palace if we’re out of this rain." 

She blushes and takes their coin, showing them to the room. They’re peppered with questions about what it’s like to be a Musketeer and if they’ve been through many battles. Aramis’ mouth pinches at the edges but he keeps up his smile. He makes up stories about their glorious victories and she fawns over them but stops just short of offering to warm their bed herself. She does offer to have a meal sent up and Porthos accepts and thanks her.   

When the door closes behind her, Porthos turns to Aramis. “You’re shameless." 

“Just think, Porthos. Tomorrow she’ll immortalize us in stories she tells her friends.” He waggles his eyebrows and Porthos tries not to be charmed. He’s so charmed. 

The bed is in the corner, wider than the one in his quarters but still not generous, and Porthos tries putting it out of his mind. They stoke the fire, and when the meal arrives they fall on it like they’ve never seen food before.  

“‘M always hungrier when I’m cold,” Porthos says and Aramis nods, folding a piece of bread and using it to wipe every trace of stew from his bowl. “Pass the wine,” Porthos says. Maybe if he has enough to drink, he can just pass out when his head hits the pillow rather than laying awake feeling Aramis’ heat against his back. 

Aramis rocks his chair back on two legs and rubs at his belly. He’s smiling, but it’s somehow softer, warmer, than it is when they’re back at the garrison or drinking at the nearby pub.  

“I needed this,” Aramis says, and there’s something else behind the words, but Porthos doesn’t push. 

They clean their weapons, and lay what they can beside the fire to dry. There’s so much that it takes up nearly all the available floor space and it becomes obvious that neither of them will be able to volunteer to give the other the whole bed. They add a few more logs to the fire, and make themselves ready for sleep. When there’s nothing left to do that won’t look like obvious stalling, Porthos turns to Aramis. 

“Wall or door?"

“Wall?” Aramis says and Porthos nods. Stripped to their shirts, they lock the door and climb into the bed, and Porthos blows out the candle on the bedside table.  

“Thank you for making this miserable trip much less miserable,” Aramis says. His voice is quieter in the dark. 

“Thanks for not being mad at me for pissing out the window into the bushes." 

Aramis sits up on his elbows and looks over at Porthos, his frown visible in the firelight. “You didn’t." 

“No, but when the morning comes I’m not going to want to hike outside." 

Aramis shakes his head and shoves Porthos’ shoulder.  

“‘Night, Aramis."

“Good night, Porthos." 

Porthos rolls to face the door, his back to Aramis and both knees hanging over the edge of the bed. He’s giving Aramis as much room as possible and while it probably looks like he’s being generous, it’s really desperate self-preservation. Aramis’ skin against his, this far away from home and prying eyes? Porthos doesn’t think he’d be able to resist, and that would be the end of them. No quick rut is worth losing his best friend.

He’s prepared to stay awake, vigilant against himself, but the warmth of Aramis in bed beside him and the exhaustion after the long ride catch up with him, and Porthos is soon asleep. His dreams are full of strange combinations of old friends and familiar places and he wants to stay there forever. When a noise wakes him, Porthos clutches at the edges of his dreams and tries to pull them back, but now there’s another noise. And movement.  

Aramis is dreaming, but it’s clear his aren’t peaceful like Porthos’. He’s curled in on himself, his hands clutching his head and his feet kicking out at the blanket. The noises are incoherent whines and cries. Porthos thinks he hears a name at one point but he can’t make it out. He tucks himself against Aramis’ back, snugging his knees up behind Aramis’ and draping an arm over his shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says. “Hey." 

Rolling, pushing out, Aramis twists until he’s facing Porthos, his head tucked into Porthos’ chest and his hands clutching Porthos’ shirt. 

It could be anything, really, haunting Aramis like this, but Porthos knows it isn’t. It’s Savoy and Porthos wants to kick himself for forgetting how close they are to the anniversary.  

He runs his hands over Aramis’ back, settling him as best he can and saying his name over and over. “Aramis. Aramis wake up I’m right here. Aramis. I’m here." 

Aramis claws his way out of the dream until he’s quiet in Porthos’ arms, his whole body shaking and his breathing unsteady. Porthos knows the instant Aramis becomes aware of where he is, how he is, because Aramis’ hands fly wide, letting go of Porthos’ shirt and he tries to push back off of Porthos’ chest. 

“Porthos, I’m so sorry. I. My apologies, I—“ 

“Stop,” Porthos says, his hands still stroking Aramis’ back. “It happens. It happens to all of us."

“I doubt that." 

“My mother died in her sleep. I still wake up in a cold sweat, thinking her body is next to me again. That she’d died and I’d just kept sleeping, not saying goodbye or telling her I loved her.” Aramis doesn’t say a word, but the shaking in his shoulders eases a little and his arms relax against Porthos’ chest. “Sometimes when I wake up like that, I wish there were someone there to talk to. Don’t apologize for letting me be here for you." 

Aramis uncurls himself enough to look Porthos in the face. “What have I done to deserve someone like you?" 

“I get that a lot, usually they’re throwing something,” Porthos says, and curls one side of his mouth in what he hopes is a sardonic smirk.  

He expects Aramis to take the bait and laugh it off, but instead he feels Aramis’ hands sliding up to cup his face. Aramis isn’t laughing. “What, Porthos, in my entire life, have I don’t to deserve someone so kind and noble and honest?”  He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t let Porthos retreat.

“Aramis?” Porthos can feel his heart racing, can feel the heat on his neck. He wants to pull away and he wants to hold Aramis’ hands to his face and never let go. The silence stretches between them until Aramis breaks it with a whisper. 

“Tell me no,” Aramis says. “Tell me you don’t want this and it’ll be like it never happened. Tell me now or I’m going to kiss you."

“Fuck,” Porthos says. “Yes."

It’s messy and fast and there are too many teeth at first. One of Aramis’ rings gets caught in Porthos’ hair and Porthos grips Aramis’ arms and presses down on a bruise leftover from training on Thursday, making Aramis yelp. It’s perfect in every way.  

Porthos brain is spinning and all he can hear is his own voice inside his head reminding him that this is Aramis. This is his Aramis. This is Aramis who he’s never believed he could touch, who Porthos has longed for since they met. This is his Aramis and his tongue is stroking into Porthos’ mouth, his hands are on Porthos’ neck. His breath is hot on Porthos’ cheek. 

Drawing back, Aramis sucks at Porthos’ lower lip, fisting his hands in Porthos’ curls until Porthos groans into his mouth. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for years,” Aramis says.  

Porthos grins at him. “You could have fucking said."

“And risk you running away? Never.” He darts his head in for another kiss and Porthos pulls at his shoulders until Aramis is over him, kissing filthy promises into Porthos’ mouth.  

“Why now, then?” Porthos asks. 

“If you weren’t going to judge me for my nightmares, I thought maybe you might forgive me this as well, as long as we promised never to speak of it again if I was wrong." 

“I don’t want to never speak of it. I don’t want that.” He slides his hand into Aramis’ hair and pulls him down sucking at his lips and tracing the roof Aramis’ mouth with his tongue.

Porthos breaks the kiss, and rests his forehead against Aramis’. He tries to calm his breathing and is pleased to see that Aramis is panting just as hard. 

“I know what you want,” Aramis says and smirks, pressing his thigh against Porthos groin and Porthos grunts in surprise. Never in his life would he have thought that an erection could be a surprise, but here he is, wondering how long his cock has been throbbing like this. Aramis grinds against him again and Porthos hisses, pulling at Aramis’ hair. He wishes it were longer, that he could wrap it around his fingers and feel the soft slide of it.  

Unable to resist the pressure, Porthos rocks his hips up and fucks his cock against Aramis’ thigh. “I won’t last long,” he says and sees Aramis shake his head. 

“Neither will I.” The heat of Aramis’ cock has seeped through both of their shirts and it’s scorching Porthos’ hip. “Off,” Aramis says, snatching at the hem of Porthos’ shirt. “Off, off.”  

Porthos tugs his shirt over his head and helps Aramis slide his own up his arms. There’s nothing between them now and Porthos is growing drunk on all of Aramis’ skin. It’s golden in the dim light of the fire and there’s just— so much of it. He wants to kiss every inch of it. Ducking his head, Porthos tries to push Aramis away so he can get his mouth on Aramis’ chest. 

“Porthos. Porthos, wait.” Aramis cups his head and tugs his face up so Porthos can meet his eyes. “Not now. I need.” He stops when he sees the look on Porthos’ face. “Oh love,” he says. “Believe me, I’m not saying never.” His smile is soft and warm and Porthos wants to kiss him for hours. “We’re going to take care of immediate pressing matters,” he punctuates it with a roll of his hips and Porthos groans, “and then, I promise you, we will take our time.”  Porthos feels Aramis’ soft, closed-mouthed kiss clear down to his toes. “And when we’re home? Oh Porthos, we’ll take all the time in the world." 

He can feel the furrow form between his own eyebrows. “You want…?” he trails off but Aramis understands, of course he does. Porthos loves this man so much. 

“Did you think I’d be done with you so fast? Did you think I’d be able to give you up once we were back in Paris?”  He shakes his head. “No, Porthos. Not for the wide world.” He rocks his hips down onto Porthos. “Now, let me feel you."

Porthos drags him into another kiss, licking at Aramis’ tongue and feeling Aramis’ moans vibrate against his skin. Sliding his hands down Aramis’ back, Porthos grabs his ass. He grinds against Aramis, using Aramis’ ass as leverage to pull them together again and again, to work Aramis’ cock against his own as they breath, fast and shallow, into each other’s mouths.  

“Please,” Aramis says. “I need. Please, Porthos.” He drops his head to Porthos’ shoulder and fucks his hips into Porthos’ without grace or pretense.  

Porthos growls low in his chest and pulls Aramis tighter, digging his fingers into the meat of Aramis’ ass. He’s leaving indentations under every fingernail and he can’t wait to trace them with his tongue.  

For all his noise, his little whimpers and moans, Aramis is silent when he comes. Porthos only knows it’s happened because Aramis goes completely still, and Porthos can feel the hot splash against his belly. That contact, that wet, illicit heat, is enough to push Porthos over as well. He groans into Aramis’ neck and comes, spilling into the place between them and making Aramis’ shudder. 

They stay like that, coming down from the high and kissing, lazy and slow, until the sweat on Porthos’ shoulders begins to dry and his belly starts to itch. Aramis wipes them down, swatting Porthos’ hands away when he tries to protest.  

“Let me take care of you for once,” he says and Porthos can’t keep from pulling him close for another kiss, fierce and fast this time.  

Aramis settles in the circle of Porthos’ arms and sighs, content.  

Porthos runs his fingers through Aramis’ hair and replays every moment. He trips over one word. 

“You called me ‘love’,” he says.  

Aramis hums and nods, rubbing his cheek against Porthos’ chest. “And I meant it." 

Porthos drops a kiss into Aramis’ hair and wonders how he got so lucky. “I mean it, too.”  

He can feel Aramis laugh. “Then why am I the only one who said it?" 

Rolling Aramis under him, Porthos looks down at him, brushing his hair from his forehead. “Better fix that, then. I love you, Aramis.”   

Bumping their noses together, Aramis kisses him. “When I woke up, the first thing I heard was you telling me ‘I’m here'.”  

Porthos cups his face, curls his fingers behind Aramis’ ears and kisses him, as slow and deep as he wants, because they’ve got time. “And I always will be. Try’n stop me." 

**Author's Note:**

> Melly did you honestly just name this after a Beach Boys song? 
> 
> I don't feel that I need to explain my art to you, Warren.


End file.
